I own nothing of Mr. Peabody and Sherman.
"Please take me there. I'm ready." – Dia Frampton
There's nearly nothing I can recall from before the shelter.
Neither my birthplace nor my siblings (if there'd been any others), let alone my mother—or rather the canine responsible for my existence.
Only lights.
And howling and being carried—by teeth or arms, I can't say for sure.
And red, a great deal of red, staining my fur.
Then rain.
I'm thankful my memory fails beyond those details, how I'd been too young back then to properly remember anything beyond my encounter with her.
Her being the short chubby woman who came across my hiding place (an old trash can at the edge of the park, overturned courtesy of the wind), no doubt drawn to the emanating whimpers.
I can't say the sight of a human suddenly looming over terrified me. Made me weary, yes, even with all my limited knowledge and innocence. And yet my reaction consisted only of violent shivers from the cold, fur bedraggled and discolored. Only a tragedy could have left my younger self desperate enough to hope for sanctuary from even a random stranger.
As a young adult, I often pondered how I could remember her wrapping that old worn scarf around me and keeping me sheltered against her chest, jacket shielding my frail body from the rain, vividly and not the dog responsible for my existence.
That musing no longer concerns me nowadays.
As far as I am concerned, Miss Richie will always be the closest I've ever had to a mother.
Sadly, my time in waiting would remain a while before I could truly call a place home.